


Scenes of Tales I Will Never Tell

by Epicfroggz



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls I
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Fire, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Wounds
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:41:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28764249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Epicfroggz/pseuds/Epicfroggz
Summary: A collection of stories centered around a particular wolf knight, at various points in his life.Chapter 2: Rooster (or How to Slay Your Dragon)Early in the war against the Everlasting Dragons, a certain company of knights celebrates a well-earned victory. Though, not all is as it seems. The morning recon team, led by Ser Artorias, have a much graver fate in store for them...
Kudos: 7





	1. Leaving Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 1: Leaving Hope (or the Insufferable Stubbornness of One (1) Knight Artorias)  
> A little while after the start of the Age of Fire, Artorias goes out for an evening patrol. Unfortunately, he is bested not by a dragon, but by everyone’s worst enemy: gravity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First fic on this site! Kept fussing that there weren’t enough works about my boy Arty and figured I may as well contribute myself. Bit of a different take on him, I suppose. Enjoy!

It was not uncommon for Artorias to take up the evening patrols along the royal woods. Its musk and twilight gloom cleared his mind whilst delighting his senses, and he could wander to his heart’s content. Should he wish to ramble, the forest proved to be a good listener, as its winds would harken to his every word. There was a peacefulness here, a vividness of nature that made Anor Londo’s gardens dull in comparison. The wolf knight was native to this land, after all, and was more familiar with these overgrown paths than the cold halls of the golden city.

Yet, nature can be equally as wild as it is beautiful, and the intended purpose of this patrol soon showed itself. Artorias ducks as a great shadow rushes overhead, swaying the trees with its mighty gusts. The roar that follows squashes any thought he has of standing his ground. This is no small dragon, but perhaps it is one he can outrun without it spotting him.

Swiftly though, the dragon circles around, heading straight for his position. Artorias curses his luck and squats behind his greatshield, bracing himself. Flames burst through the thick canopy, licking the frayed edges of his cloak. He straps the shield around his back and sprints in the direction from which he came, until it occurs to him that leading the dragon to Anor Londo is unwise. Instead, he takes a sharp turn and dives into a deep thicket, hoping to lose the beast before returning home.

Leaping as far as he can with each step, Artorias runs, regretting every scorch mark left behind in his wake. Then, the beating of wings begins to grow faint. _Could it have left?_ He turns his attention up to the sky, just as his foot catches on a gnarled root. “Ack—!”

This root happens to be on the top crest of a hill, down which the mildly panicked Artorias attempts to roll. “Wo-Woah!” He loses control and tumbles into the dark wood, dragged along by gravity and the weight of his weaponry. The hillside only becomes steeper and steeper. Branches and leaves whip past, and stones dent his armor. It is only a sturdy tree that is able to stop his graceless slide, its trunk knocking the breath from his lungs.

Spitting into the dirt, the knight tries to catch his bearings. His helmet was knocked off somewhere, which may account for the pulsing in his head. Twilight had turned to a dark, cloudy night, and what light did breach the leaves above only revealed muddled shapes, even to his enhanced night vision. It was eerily quiet, save for his own labored breaths.

Artorias attempts to stand, feeling some sort of way about being bested by a hill. When his ankle cries out in protest and sends him crashing to the ground with a resounding clang, he resolves to not try again. He could crawl, like a little skittering insect, but that did not sound particularly appealing. With a bitter sigh, he drags himself to a tree and rests his aching head against it.

This situation is less than ideal. He was certain he would never be found if he stayed here, for no one that cares enough would know where to go looking for him. A certain cold settles into his bones. Was he to die here? Unknown to and abandoned by the world?Like some of his worst nightmares, swallowed up by the night and reclaimed by the haunted woods... He shivers, straining to see anything through the shadows, any creature that could at least reassure him that he was not alone. Artorias tries to stay vigilant, but alas, weariness soon creeps up on him.

Well, mayhaps it would not be so bad. It is just a quick rest.

* * *

A mellow aroma of flowers wafted close, pleasantly tickling the sinuses of one particular wolf knight. It was dawn, beloved sunlight peeking in through the trees, little birds flitting amidst their branches. Artorias blinks awake, sore from... falling, that’s what it was. The dirt was upturned from where he bumped along the hill, something silver poking out from under a shrub. His helmet, he notes numbly, patting his head and thumbing the streak of blood down the side of his face. Probably not a good sign, and neither was the odd way his foot was turned.

No matter. It was imperative that he return to Anor Londo, and give his report on the, the... dragon, yes. He dragged himself to his feet, supporting himself with tree trunks as he made his way back up the hill. How long had he been asleep? Artorias hesitated, then; what if the dragon had already made it there? He would have failed them, returning to a city in flames— No! Better not to think about that. They would be expecting him, and the thought of someplace warm and safe was enough to keep him pushing forward.

* * *

Sir Ornstein paced along the hall overlooking the training grounds, a knot of worry in his throat. Just where was that man? It had been days since he had left for his usual patrol. He swore, if Artorias returned with some pack of wild animals trailing him, he would surely— “Ah, Captain!”

The dragonslayer looked up, not even having noticed the wolf knight’s approach; he had always been the elusive one, not quite as hidden as Ciaran, but certainly quiet for a man of his stature. Now he appeared worse for wear, with a singed cloak and dented plates of armor, and the sort of crooked way by which he walked. The worry returned tenfold. “Artorias! What in Gwyn’s name happened to thee?”

With a slight quirk of his lips that didn’t reach his bleary eyes, he said, “There wast a... dragon. And I tripped ‘long the way.”

Ornstein’s brows furrowed at the mention of a dragon, but the sorry state of his friend was at his mind’s forefront. “Didst thou walk all the way here? What of thy horse?”

“Horse..? Eaten, mayhaps. I am fine, not to worry.” Artorias stumbled forward, pausing to glance at his captain in bewilderment before shaking the thought away. It was a look not befitting of him, and the proximity allowed Ornstein to see the dried blood along his cheek. “Hungry, though,” he clipped. “My rations didst not give.”

“Artorias,” Ornstein began gently, “we must get thee to the infirmary at once. Understand?”

He shook his head, waving him away. “No no, ‘twas merely a bump. The beast,” he mimicked the wings of a dragon, rambling, “it chased me for a while yet! I almost led it here, almost, but I turned and led it astray. See, Captain, I listen to thy directions sometimes— Woa—!” As he pranced around the hall relaying his story, Artorias’ ankle suddenly gave out and he collapsed to the floor with a mighty crash. For a moment he groaned, but soon lay silent.

“Oh, by the gods, Artorias, you bloody fool—!” Ornstein let off a string of curses, moving quickly to lift him. He was heavy and could only be dragged along in short bursts, but oh, how it hurt him to do so. The dragonslayer had to stop, grimacing as his heart clenched in fresh dread. Helplessly, he searched around, for perhaps someone could assist him, and spotted a distinctive mop of white hair pass near. “Gwynsen! Over here!”

“Eh? Ah, my dearest knight,” Gwynsen bellowed and stormed over, already lifting the downed Artorias with relative ease. “I thought I may have heard a distressed lion nearby. Explain what hast gone on here, anon.”

Ornstein rushed to be in step alongside the god, gushing with gratitude. “Aye, of course. Ser Artorias hast been missing for a few days, as he is wont to do. As thee sees, he hast returned with a head injury—doth be careful—he collapsed just now, from exhaustion I imagine, and the rest is as thee knows.” He prattled for a moment more, wrung his hands for a bit, then settled on fiddling with his red hair.

Gwynsen rumbled in thought, shifting so the man in his arms would be better supported. “I see. Fret not for our friend here, my sister will make quick work of this. There is something else that troubles thee, my dear.”

“I am... worried about him. This is not the first time he hast done this, it is like he has nary a care for his wellbeing.”

“Certainly our friend does not actively seek trouble, such things art simply what befall kind men. We have known him for a while yet. He shall give the full tale of it once he is rested.” Gwynsen nods with finality as they approach the infirmary, but the reassurance leaves Ornstein wanting. He wishes he could be so sure of himself, see the world as simply as his charge did. Yet, his mind has always been sensitive, and he cannot help but think there is something deeply wrong with this whole situation.

They enter the room then, resting the unconscious knight on an empty cot. The young clerics scuttle around their unexpected guests, both in awe and apprehension, as they tidy up exposed medical supplies and unfurled miracle scrolls. One disappears behind an opaque curtain and returns with none other than Lady Gwynevere in tow, her warm smile belying the weariness in her eyes. She did not seem wholly surprised at who was the one in need of treatment; Artorias was, of course, no stranger to the clerical staff. “Dear brother, and Sir Ornstein, welcome. Forgive our state of disarray, a troop of our silver knights was suddenly blindsided by a dragon. I do not suppose that hast aught to do with Ser Artorias here?”

“Oh,” Ornstein blanched, “He did mention a dragon, in fact...”

“And thou cared not mention it to me, my knight?” The growing intensity of Gwynsen’s gaze was leveled on said dragonslayer, who shriveled under it. With a firm bump to his chest, the god of war stated, “We shalt go slay it at once, to prevent further casualty.”

“Excellent! Allow me to assess Ser Artorias, so ye can go on your way,” the princess beamed. She bent over her new patient, gently cleaning the cut on his upper forehead; his face was contorted into a pained frown, but he otherwise did not stir. “Hm... This wound is quite deep, not to mention what trauma may lie underneath, or elsewhere. A greater miracle shall be needed, at the very least,” Gwynevere hummed, turning to the two men. “Go, anon, before dear Gwynsen starts another thunderstorm in here. I cannot guarantee he will be awake at the hour ye return, but I shall do my best.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Ornstein rushed to say, feeling his ears burn. This ordeal was just going from bad to worse. Gwynsen, ever impatient, was already gone with a great harrumph and a swish of his cloak. His sister offered an empathetic smile but no spoken condolences. Instead, she and her nurses got to removing the downed knight’s armor, plucking out twigs while they were at it. There was more the dragonslayer wanted to say as he gave Artorias a long forlorn glance, until he remembered his place, and hastily shuffled out to meet with his charge.

At least the dragon would be burnt to a crisp quickly.

* * *

His mind felt raw, pounding an ache that washed over his head in waves. There was a tingling, as well, from his fingers and the tips of his toes. The inner miasma of pain grew stronger as whatever suppressed it wore off. A uniquely strong miracle, perhaps, the kind that was not so comforting, for it laid all his flaws and sins bare to be judged by the Light. Artorias took a deep breath. When all the space in his lungs was filled, he let it out in a controlled stream. Still alive. And touched by Lady Gwynevere’s warm hands and prayers, no less.

Deciding he was safe, Artorias opened his eyes a creak, peering out the tall window above him. The sky was dark and the horizon mellow orange, the night overtaking Anor Londo’s golden sun. He was grateful—the sun’s brightness oft assaulted his senses upon other awakenings. Nearby, a quiet voice chanted a slow yet welcoming miracle, easing the whimpers of another patient. Best to not alert them, Artorias thought, clenching and unclenching his fists. He preferred to keep to himself and contemplate—or _brood_ , as his friends called it. No matter, if they allowed him time alone to decompress, it was enough. He had never felt at home with the endless meetings and elaborate ceremonies that his position demanded of him; how Ornstein could pull off a straight face the entire time was beyond him.

Nevertheless, he was proud of his life of service, despite the yearning for some greater purpose than slaying the last remnants of a dying race. Dragons were as integral to nature as trees and wolves and people, and it pained him yet to hunt them. Self-defense was another matter, but actively seeking them out only for sport was much too savage for his tastes. In the darkest hours of the night, Artorias secretly wished for a worse threat to appear, something wholly unnatural, a perversion of the world’s order—if and when it came, then he would devote his life to its destruction and emerge a great hero.

To be remembered for his actions, that would be the greatest reward. There is no use in being so hardy a species if you spend your life in stagnation. Having your name passed down through generations, even long after you have gone, is more like immortality than anything else. To be forgotten, to be abandoned, to die—he fears these notions, in some primal way, yes, he fears death. It is this fear, and the acceptance of its existence, that strengthens him. His soul burns so purely that it can stave off shadow for ages, until the dark finally grinds away all that is left—an unbendable will of steel, he has, and that is what always brings him back. It may seem he loses hope for a time, but as long as there is a purpose, there is a way.

Or so Artorias ruminates, laying there on that cot, recovering from an awful bump on the head. He wants to believe in himself, believe he is capable of overcoming any obstacle, but doubt and hopelessness tend to live rent-free in his mind. In all that he attempts, there is always failure. Perhaps he sets his standards too high, but there is no excuse to not be excellent—he will come to find out that others were injured due to his delays in reporting the dragon, and think back to this. Sitting there under that tree in the forest, he had recalled all the moments he had failed, time and time again, and nearly given in.

Nearly. Still, Artorias bemoans his weakness, and the knot in his throat thinking of it causes. He swallows, thickly, crumples the bedsheets in his fists, flexes his toes, anything to ease himself. Grimacing only causes his head to hurt more.

At last, his thoughts begin to slip through his fingers and devolve into fleeting things like just how fiery his captain’s hair is or what sparse memories he has of the walk back to the city. After a long while, sleep finally claims him.

* * *

When the morning comes, Ornstein heads to the infirmary. He was tipped by a servant that Artorias has now stirred, and it is his duty as his captain—and his friend—to go check on him. The dragonslayer cannot deny that he lay restless all night wondering if he would be okay, after hearing that Lady Gwynevere’s miracles did not wake him. Better to go see for himself, certainly, if only for some peace of mind.

The door is ajar when he arrives, angled just so that his friend’s cot is in view. He does not wish to barge in because of the sort of man Artorias is, the type that slides into a second personality upon being provoked. It is not a calculated mask he wears, no, Ornstein knows how to recognize those. Rather, it is more like a defense mechanism to protect that fragile thing at his core. Like a wolf he is guarded and skittish, and only with enough work will he trust you and bare his soul to you.

But I digress. Ornstein peers into the infirmary, where Artorias sits with his head against his knee and his hands in his lap, the other leg laid straight due to the cast around its ankle. Bandages are wrapped around his forehead—but some strands of his bangs yet manage to droop over—and he seems to sigh heavily with each breath. With lips pulled into so deep a frown, one can imagine what low thoughts weigh on his mind. Ornstein mimics the expression, but is resolute as he pushes open the door.

Immediately, Artorias perks up and tries for a grin, but then holds his head in pain as if he had moved too fast for his wound to handle. At least he is alert and disregarding his wellbeing for the sake of others, as usual. “Good morning, Captain,” he greets, settling into a more relaxed version of his previous position. His soft smile warms said captain’s heart.

“Morning. Thou seems as if thou has seen better days, my friend. How art thee holding up?”

“Could be worse. I worry more-so for the rock which struck me here.” Artorias taps his forehead, winces, then chuckles at himself. Ornstein can appreciate the effort put into lifting his spirits, noting he is back to his slow and deliberate way of speaking, not the slurred ramble from before. Though, now he sobers, “I wish no others hadst been hurt because of me, though, it is... I shalt have to make it up to them, somehow.”

The dragonslayer lets off a small laugh. “I do not believe they are aware thee had aught to do with it. We hast slain the dragon, Gwynsen and I, so there is naught for thee to worry about.”

“I see,” he hums, not convinced of the latter.

“Come on, tis my job to worry, not yours. Thee should focus on recovering, and perhaps, watching thy step in the future.” Ornstein’s cheeky grin was contagious.

“Of course, Captain, I shall add that tip to my records then. Entry number four hundred and fifty six...” Artorias trails off, snickering. It would be tragic to break his good humor then, so Ornstein files the thought of confronting him about his recklessness for later. It had always been that way: he found difficulty in talking seriously to him, heart to heart, and kept putting it off.

But how long can he delay before it is too late?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lore Note: In Anor Londo culture, it is typical to denote high-ranking foreigners with a slight mispronunciation of “sir”, i.e. “ser”. This is still used even for someone as trusted as Knight Artorias, since he is quite literally from the forest around Oolacile. This also is used with Gough, since he is a giant, and giants are not so welcome in the golden city.
> 
> *dun dun dun* That last bit may be Relevant to a future chapter that I may or may not get to. I hope to write some major scenes of Artorias’ story (and what happens afterwards should he live...), but my commitment skill is low so I cannot promise anything. I’m just a frazzled student hanging on by virtue of my obsession with one 8-foot tall man, lol! Also, I hope the fancy medieval speak didn’t get annoying.
> 
> Next chapter: More dragon fire, dead guys, and Arty being traumatized
> 
> Update: figured out how formatting works + chapter is correctly titled now (as Leaving Hope, like the Nine Inch Nails song)


	2. Rooster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2: Rooster (or How to Slay Your Dragon)  
> Early in the war against the Everlasting Dragons, a certain company of knights celebrates a well-earned victory. Though, not all is as it seems. The morning recon team, led by Ser Artorias, have a much graver fate in store for them...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note that this chapter is way way before the first chapter, they are not really meant to be in chronological order. Enjoy!

The night sang with the clinking of mugs and drunken revelry. Knights half-clad in silver armor sat or danced around the bonfire in the middle of camp, relishing in the victory of another successful dragon kill. Their celebration was further bolstered by the presence of their red-cloaked Knight-Commander, the God of War himself, Gwynsen.

“Now now, dear comrades,” he addressed the gathered troop, voice naturally booming. “Let all this drink not be wasted on mineself! We ought to thank our resident dragonslayer, who delivered the killing blow on this blessed day, with the very same powers the gods possess. To Knight-Captain Ornstein, a true legend in the making!”

“Hurrah!” The knights pumped their mugs into the air, cheering. Ornstein himself was flushed from ear to ear, burning either from the booze or the acknowledgment of his idol.

Though, the young dragonslayer was not used to being showered in praise, and it soon tired him. He quietly excused himself, letting Gwynsen return to being the focal point of the festivities. A cool breeze passed by as the sounds of the party faded the farther he got from camp, lending itself to a contemplative moonlit stroll. The dragon he put down had been dangerous, but distinctly smaller than others he had seen. Perhaps it was a child—?

“Who? Who?” A peculiar hoot broke Ornstein out of his reverie, and following the sound led to an even more peculiar sight: a blue-cloaked knight, another captain like himself, having a deep discussion with the owl perched on his arm. “Who? You?”

“Nay, tis not for me, I cannot do as they do. Mayhaps I lack faith, or, or mayhaps...” He sighed, shoulders slumping. “I am how I am. How I loathe to feel so much closer to thee than to them...”

The owl’s head swiveled to stare at Ornstein when he neared. The other knight’s gaze soon followed, piercing like a predator’s, stilling his step. His eyes were bold yellow against a pale canvas and raven-haired frame. “A-Artorias! Tis so rare to see thee without helm nor hood,” Ornstein sputtered. “Ah, where art my manners? Forgive me for intruding upon thy... conversation.”

Artorias turned away. “No, tis fine. I should not have strayed so far from the pack, anywho.” His hesitant pause gave Ornstein a chance to think through his inebriation—were his eyes not normally blue? Perhaps that is why he dared not look back. “This is Staccato, by the way. A friend.”

“Who?” The owl clipped, clambering onto the knight’s left shoulder. “You?”

Ornstein ignored this. “Why art thou not with the others? We ought to return, the both of us.”

“Ah, I hadst only sat for a spot of thinking, ‘twill have to be enough.” The knight encouraged Staccato to fly off, then pulled the hood of his cloak low over his brow. It seemed ineffective, though, for his eyes yet reflected moonlight and thus glowered faintly from the shadows. “Lead the way, then.”

Ornstein nods and turns back the way he came, struggling to recall. Artorias was of the newer Knight-Captains, but was already one of his good friends. He was oft silent, yet had impeccable timing on his jokes and attacks all the same. Now that he thought about it, Ornstein had no idea where he came from; he was certainly not of Lord Gwyn’s settlement, nor did he boast of his homeland like the Astorans and Catarinians. So tall a man, perhaps he was not even wholly godkin. “Thou dost not fit in well with the rest of us, do thee?” Ornstein blurted out, eyeballing the other knight.

“I suppose not,” Artorias replied, averting his gaze. “I hadst a much different upbringing than thee...”

“How so?”

“My father is neither god nor human.” He swallowed thickly, as if remembering some foul memory. “He is a greatwolf, the first of them, Fenrir. We didst not get along.”

Ornstein gaped. _The_ Fenrir, the divine black-furred beast that roams the deepwoods? He had only caught sight of it once, but such was enough to instill the fear of nature within him. “Thy mother must be a goddess, then?”

“Mhm. I was her only child.” It seemed Artorias wished to speak of it no more, his voice gone quiet and dejected. Still, that was the most he had ever divulged about the matter, and it explained, well, a lot of things.

You see, most half-bred are of the god-with-human sort, these lesser godkin making up the bulk of Gwyn’s army’s ranks. To think there is such a man that is part greatwolf, without showing many physical divergences other than being exceptionally tall... Apart from the yellow “night eyes” he just discovered, all other adaptations must lie within, as enhanced senses and so on. Though, it was not like Ornstein had had the opportunity to behold Artorias’ bare form (yet), so he could simply be hiding these things. The dragonslayer stared critically at his friend as if able to see through his armor, receiving only a quirked brow in response.

They continued their walk in silence, Ornstein busying himself with these muddled thoughts. At camp, the festivities had died down, many soldiers already retired to bed. Thus, two captains parted ways and did the same.

* * *

An hour before the break of dawn, Knight-Captain Artorias gathered his small squad and their horses and set out for reconnaissance. All of their missions were of this nature, for none present were adept at wielding lightning like their comrades in the main troop. In terms of combat ability, Artorias himself excelled at swordsmanship, the rest of his skill lying in quick thinking and problem-solving. As such, he trained his men to be expert fighters, not specifically against dragons, but against any foe that may pose a threat to their cause. They trusted him fully, proud to be some of the most elite knights in the ranks.

The squad rode through the misty morning, searching for an elevated crag to establish their lookout. Lewin, a jolly knight from Catarina and Artorias’ right-hand man, sauntered up next to his captain. “Lovely weather for a dragon hunt, eh ser?”

Artorias peered down from atop his horse, the white stallion which so happened to be the tallest in the company. “Once this fog breaks, it ought to be a beautiful day, aye.”

“Ser, I have found a path up to the cliff,” another comrade called, a scout named Elias. His eyes shone with youth and innocence. “It should be quite easy for our horses to traverse it!”

“Very well then. Let us—” The captain abruptly paused, glancing up at the obscured sky. Lewin began to ask what was wrong, but then heard it: a bellowing roar, and it was closing the distance fast. Swiftly, the knights huddled together, horses nickering with anxiousness.

Elias was the first to speak, in a whisper. “Mayhaps it has not seen us, captain. We still have time...”

“To regroup with the others, yes. We stand little chance alone. But”—Artorias unsheathed his blade—“be prepared to fight for thy lives nonetheless.” The fog surrounding them darkened for a moment as an enormous beast flew overhead, its cry loosening rocks from the cliffside. It sounded pained, almost, but none of them wanted to take their chances. After a moment more, the squad began the careful ride back to camp.

The silence was laden with trepidation, each knight counting their paces. One loud mistake and it could spell doom for them all. It was going well, until Elias’ breath hitched. “Achoo!” Everyone stopped in their tracks, Lewin clasping a hand over the wide-eyed boy’s mouth. They waited.

“I think we are fine—” In a hair’s breadth, everything was engulfed in dragon fire. It was a firebomb of epic proportions, the same attack used by yesterday’s kill. Artorias was knocked clean off his mount, and all went dark.

* * *

He sucked in a breath of charged air, coughing terribly. Artorias tore off his helmet and scrubbed the ash out of his vision, taking in the blazing battlefield before him. One or two knights were incinerated by the initial attack, leaving behind armored husks, and most of the horses had scattered. Amidst the ruin, he could see his own white stallion struggling to stand, but its life was suddenly snuffed under a clawed foot. The ancient dragon caused the very earth to quake when it landed, its skin and teeth stained blood red. There was no doubt in Artorias’ mind that this was the mother of the whelp they had previously slain. She reared her giant head back, orange burning between her stone scales.

Another deafening blast left Artorias’ ears ringing. Oh, what wrath they had brought upon themselves! Heaving, he pulled himself to his feet and grabbed a blade from the burning soil. Those not caught in the destruction too began to stand, and Artorias rallied them, calling over the sound of crackling flame. “To me, comrades! Today we fight like gods, let the sacrifice of our friends not be in vain! Hurrah!”

“Hurrah!” Since they were separated, Lewin led the charge on the beast’s left flank and Artorias on the right. They sank their blades into her neck and arms, for she knew not which way to turn, but the skin was thick and the attack only served to anger her further. A swipe from her claws forced those on the right side to step back, as she opened her powerful jaws and chomped down on the nearest knight. Elias’ blood-curdling scream rang through the air.

Artorias winced but yet pressed on, leading another wave of attacks while one of her primary weapons was occupied. Telling his men to strike where she had already been impaled, they discovered the beast could bleed. “Push on! Target her neck, now!” Continued assaults forced the dragon to lower her head, and a new opportunity surfaced. Bravely, Artorias jumped to grab on to her horns, causing her to roar and thrash. He got on top of her head but the violent movement prevented him from attacking as he wished.

Below, Lewin shouted to the remaining knights, “Now’s our chance to bring ‘er down, laddies! Frontal attack, go!” They brought her down to her knees. Then, a great clap of her wings pushed them back, many tumbling to the ground from the sheer force of it. With a sudden jerk of her head, Artorias nearly lost his grip. She was charging another fireblast, he realized, and his squad was caught right where she wanted.

“RUN!” But the order was not heard over the fiery eruption. Artorias could only watch as his friends were devoured by the flames. His gut churned with terror but his blood boiled with rage, and he found the courage to plunge his blade between her eyes, screams lost to the white noise. She cried, her arms rendered useless from the previous assault, the light now fading from her golden irises. “Die, cruel beast!” With a few more lethal thrusts, the dragon crashed to the blackened ground.

Artorias slid down her snout to the floor, panting. They stared at each other, him and the dying mother, so much pain consuming them both. The crackling of fire was interspersed with his buddies’ dying breaths, stench of smoke and burning corpses choking the air. It made his eyes water as he gazed at the devastation.

 _So this is our fate._ All will burn in hellfire, in the end.

* * *

A distant explosion jolted Ornstein from his slumber. He scrambled outside his tent, cursing the ample drink from the night before, for normally he was awake early to bid the recon team safe travels. Gwynsen stood alone next to the remains of their bonfire, looking out to the horizon. “Gather the men. Everyone. We leave at once,” the god commanded, though his voice was low. A fireball emerged from above the tree line.

“By the gods,” the dragonslayer mouthed before sprinting to wake the troops. Afterwards, Ornstein caught up with Gwynsen as they charged to the source of the chaos.

The mist fled from the scorching clearing, the air dry and unforgiving as the pale sun beamed overhead. Some terrible calamity had occurred here. Bodies, a dozen or so, cooked within their blackened silver armor. A crimson dragon lay defeated, blood gushing from the fatal wound in its forehead. Amidst it all stood a knight, his torn cloak whipping in the wind. The sole survivor, not the valiant victor.

Jumping off his mount first, Ornstein approached the lone wolf. He called out his name, no response. He put a hand on his shoulder, to which the knight flinched, finally looking at him. His eyes—blue, Ornstein noted—were darkened with horror, tension, guilt. There was nothing to be said, except an apology, conveyed solely through stares.

* * *

Artorias was hardly injured, physically at least. Only a few cuts, bruises, and surface burns, rolled up in bandages and soothed by elementary miracles. The rest was, well...

For days, he did not speak. Barely noticed anyone at all. He lurked far, far away from the camp’s bonfires at night, kept to himself during the day. Couldn’t stand the smell of it, of smoke. At times, he appeared thoroughly vexed by something, before his expression returned to muted ambivalence.

Ornstein visited whenever his duties would allow, talking about this and that. The mother dragon’s head had been delivered to Lord Gwyn, he mentioned once, as proof of the army’s continued success. That topic did not blow over well, sparking a flare of anger. But it was a start. “We chose not to mention the circumstances in our letter, of course,” Ornstein continues pointedly, resisting the other’s glare. “Nor the casualties...”

“Nobody deserved to die,” Artorias grinds out, the spell breaking. “Nobody.” Suddenly, he drops his head into his hands, fingers digging into his scalp. “It is all my fault...”

“No no, do not blame thyself.” Ornstein shuffles by his side, arms wrapping around his hunched shoulders. He rubs slow circles into his back, soothing him enough to speak again.

“Thou knows, I must— I can never be a captain again, right? I am incapable, unworthy...” Yes, he knew it would come to something like this, eventually. One man can only lose so much.

“Will thee yet fight for us?” He asks after a long while. They were young still, mere children in the world’s eyes, and the war for their survival would continue with or without him. Ornstein expects him to refuse.

Then, Artorias straightens somewhat, resolution in his eyes. “I will. Whatever it takes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lore Note: From then on, miracle-wielders are required in each squad, as per a direct order from Knight-Commander Gwynsen. Artorias is technically no longer a captain, but a warrior he remains. He roams the battlefields like a ghost, most of his kills attributed to other knights, such as Dragonkiller Arkon. Close to the war’s end, Artorias seemingly disappears off the face of the earth.
> 
> Walkin’ tall machine gun man... Doing the research for the lore note reference made me realize that this story is basically the same thing that happens to Arkon anyways, lol. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, google “Dark Souls: Age of Fire”, it’s a pretty neat comic. Also, don’t worry about Artorias, he’ll be FINE... probably.
> 
> Next chapter: Artorias does some soul-searching, and Ornstein has a “religious” awakening


End file.
